


The Care and Feeding Of

by zeitheist



Category: Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitheist/pseuds/zeitheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basso hates it when Garrett goes missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Care and Feeding Of

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt on the Thief Kink Meme, but I saw too late that the prompter wanted the original Thief games instead of the new one. Mea culpa, I'm an idiot.

Basso hates it when Garrett goes missing.

It doesn’t happen very often, but it’s always a pain in the arse when it does. Thieves are like stray cats, in that they tend to wander when their passions are inflamed, but as far as thieves go Garrett tends to be one of the more reliable ones. When he doesn’t turn up as scheduled, it’s usually because something’s _wrong_. Something which will inevitably turn up on Basso’s doorstep, sooner or later.

Still, thievery is an uncertain business at best, so Basso doesn’t worry. Much. He waits a few days to see if Garrett will turn up. He sends his new bird with a handful of matchboxes, and doesn’t panic when they go unanswered. He scans the newspaper front-to-back for stories about thieves being apprehended, although he suspects that if the General ever catches Garrett in the act it’s going to make front-page news and then some. As the days begin to turn into weeks, he starts to put out a few feelers amongst his contacts, in the hope of turning up some information about how Garrett’s last job went. Nothing too obvious; Basso doesn’t know what state Garrett’s in, but he doesn’t want to risk pointing anybody in his direction when he’s vulnerable. With a rising sense of desperation, Basso even tries to plumb a few of his more reliable or less intelligent thieves for information.

He tells himself it’s the best he can do.

That’s not strictly true. He could always drop in and visit Garrett, make sure he’s okay, instead of sitting in the Crippled Burrick worrying about him. However, Basso is keenly aware that he’s not _technically_ supposed to know that Garrett has set up base in the old clocktower. More to the point, he knows that his presence there won’t be welcomed, regardless of what state Garrett is in.

Plus, he can’t actually make it up all those stairs.

Part of Basso can’t help but wonder if Garrett has simply skipped town. He wouldn’t be the first, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. Some thieves start lifting valuables out of compulsion, but for others it’s because their only other option is to starve in the gutters. Garrett isn’t the only one to have made a lifestyle out of it, and Basso has known plenty of men who disappeared in search of the ultimate treasure, the promise of an good life, or the threat of an unpleasant death. If that’s what’s going on here, then Basso hopes for Garrett’s sake that it’s not the latter. If ever there was a bloke who could use a little bit of happiness...

Eight days after Garrett should have checked in, the papers run a headline about a heirloom necklace that had mysteriously disappeared from a locked safe on the eve of a grand party, from underneath the noses of a dozen guards and thirty houseguests. The article is short but sensationalist, and a cursory scan reveals at least three things which are so heavily fabricated that you may as well give up and just call them lies. _Theft?_ the headline howls. _Or inside job?_ Basso spares a brief, rueful thought for Lady Boyle’s maidservants. The local rag has never been one to let facts get in the way of a good story, and with everybody throwing their weight around it’s usually the people on the bottom of the pile who start to feel the pressure.

The article does a good line in interviewing the tearful governess, which is always a crowd-pleaser. There’s even a quote from the General himself. It’s the usual line, something about bringing the perpetrators to swift and merciless justice, but there’s no doubt in Basso’s mind that the General knows who carried out the crime. For all his many personality faults, the General isn’t a stupid man, and Garrett has a very particular calling card. Basso scans the closing lines of the article and -- ah, there it is. _The thief also made off with six inkwells, a glass ashtray, several pieces of jewelry, and the entire contents of the cutlery drawer!_

Basso chuckles as he casts the paper aside. That’s Garrett, alright. So he had completed the job and, since there’s no mention of the General capturing the Master Thief and hanging his head over his mantle, Basso is going to assume that he got out clean.

So why hasn’t he checked in?

Luckily, or perhaps not, Basso doesn’t have time to dwell any further on the issue. Within the week, several more pressing matters arrive to demand his attention: namely his now-overdue Tax, and whatever shitstorm is brewing between the Ladies’ Convalescense Club and the Eelbiters. Basso is still trying to figure out what Chokes has done to piss the Wren off so badly, but it’s apparently serious enough that she’s willing to cut the Eelbiters out of every trade racket in the City. Which means that either Basso is going to wake up one morning to find the City on fire, or that the criminal underworld is about to get divided right down the middle. If push comes to shove then Basso knows he’ll stick with the Wren, but he doesn’t fancy explaining that to Chokes or his men.

On top of that, Basso receives a late-night visit from a twitchy little footpad, hollow-eyed with hunger and half out of his mind with terror, trying to unload a bag of junk and one very valuable but unfortunately distinctive necklace. Basso ends up paying the kid more than the stuff is worth just because he feels sorry for him, but then he has to go through the laborious process of trying to ditch the necklace before the Watch’s finest pay him a visit, which they will do very shortly because he _still hasn’t paid his bloody Tax!_

It isn’t that he’s relying on Garrett to come through with the goods, so that he can collect his fee and use it to pay the General. Because that would be the kind of stupid decision that would get well-meaning fences strung up by their bollocks in the town square. Having been in this business for many years, Basso is smart enough to recognize that however reliable Garrett has been in the past, he’s still a thief, and you didn’t put money on thieves unless you wanted to lose it.

Except for the part where that’s _exactly_ what Basso is doing. He had figured that if he couldn’t trust Garrett as a thief, maybe he could trust him as a friend - more fool him! Not that he begrudges Garrett the opportunity to build a better life for himself, but he really wishes Garrett hadn’t chosen to do it with what is essentially Basso’s Black Tax.

Basso counts another coin into the pile on the table, checks his sums in the nearby ledger, and groans. He leans back in his chair and presses his fingertips into his gritty, aching eyes. He’s been up all night trying to plan out a way to duck the inevitable, and so far the best he’s got is to flee the city on a boat before it gets light.

“That’s it,” he tells his bird, which cocks its head at the sound of his voice. “The General is going to take my hands, and it’ll fucking serve me right for trusting a thief with my money.”

The bird just squawks at him. Daft fucking thing.

“Given up on me already, Basso? I’m offended.”

“ _Fuck_.” Basso startles so hard that he nearly upends the entire desk; as it is, his knee slams into the underside and sets everything on it to rattling. Something falls off the edge and lands in a musical tinkle of breaking glass. The bird takes flight with a terrified shriek and disappears through the open window, leaving behind nothing more than a handful of feathers.

Basso rubs his knee and glares at Garrett. “Look,” he says, “if you won’t use the door, the least you could do is give me some kind of warning. I’m not a young guy anymore. My heart can’t take it.”

Garrett remains unmoved, as always. He uses a fingertip to turn the newspaper that Basso had left on the desktop, and raises an eyebrow at the headline. “That’s your problem, Basso,” he says. “You’ve always had too much heart.”

Was it just Basso, or did Garrett’s voice sound slightly rougher than usual?

“Oh ha bloody _ha_.” Basso watches as Garrett discards the paper and prowls the room, picking things up seemingly at random, turning them over, assessing them. It’s compulsive, with him. Basso can’t say he isn’t a little unnerved by having the Master Thief paw through his things, but so far Garrett hasn’t tried to walk out with any of it, and Basso is used to training magpies. “Where you been, Garrett?”

Garrett glances at Basso and grins. “Why?” he asks. “Were you worried?”

“Considering nothing good ever comes out of you going missing, yeah, I was worried.” Basso doesn’t directly reference the incidents of the past few months: Garrett going missing for a year, returning just in time for everything to go tits-up. Or maybe precipitating the entire thing, Basso still isn’t sure. Garrett had told him bits and pieces of it, but Basso isn’t stupid enough to think he knows the whole story. “Did you get my messages?”

“I got them,” says Garrett, which at least confirms that Basso’s new bird is doing its job, and not just dropping the matchboxes in the gutter somewhere. “I was… otherwise engaged.”

“No shit.”

It’s on the tip of Basso’s tongue to make a remark about Garrett’s busy social life. He very nearly does, before he remembers that most of the people who constituted a social life for Garrett are dead. Not for the first time, he wonders just what Garrett does when he’s not running jobs. He can’t exactly see Garrett sitting in a corner of the tavern, with a drink in his hand, a woman on his lap, and friends at his side. Just what did he _do_ all day? Most of Basso’s thieves had their own hobbies: gambling, drinking, cats. Hell, he knew one who did embroidery in their down-time. Even Erin had had her drawings, god rest her soul.

What does Garrett have? The question makes Basso feel uneasy.

“So you’re not going to tell me where you’ve been?” he confirms.

Garrett cuts him a sharp look. “Like I said, I was otherwise engaged.”

Basso shrugs. “Fine, don’t tell me,” he says. “No skin off my nose. Did you get the jewel?”

Garrett actually has the nerve to look offended. “What do you think?” He dances deft fingers across his armor, and the necklace appears in his hand like a magician’s trick, a shining spill of gold and glitter pinched delicately between Garrett’s thumb and forefingers. Bloody show-off. “Looks like the General won’t be taking your hands after all.”

“Heard that, did you?”

“Well, you were making quite a production out of it.”

“S’all part of my charm.”

“Hm.” Garrett seems unconvinced, but he’s smirking, so Basso isn’t too offended.

He makes a show out of rolling his eyes anyway. Never a good idea to let a thief know when they’ve got the upper hand, even one as generally decent as Garrett. “You going to give me that necklace,” Basso asks, “or cradle it like your fucking firstborn?”

Not that he’s worried. Some thieves, they dangle the prize in front of Basso’s face in an attempt to make him jump for it. He’d like to say it never works but, well, it depends on the prize. Basso isn’t greedy, but he’s not so concerned with pride that he’d let a valuable piece walk out of the door rather than concede a few extra coins for it. Luckily for him, most of his suppliers had no idea how to properly value their ill-gotten goods. Garrett is the exception to the rule: Basso has no doubt that Garrett knows exactly how much this necklace is worth, just like he has no doubt that Garrett doesn’t care about the extra profit.

He used to put that down to some sort of honor on Garrett’s part. Now he knows better. It’s not about the coin, for Garrett. It never has been. Whatever reward Garrett gets out of their little deal, he’s already taken it when he pulled off the heist.

The entire contents of the governess' cutlery drawer probably didn’t hurt, either.

True enough, Garrett gives up the necklace as if he either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that it could keep him in coin for a year. Not that he could get as much for it as Basso plans to. It’s an attractive piece - yellow gold, studded with precious jewels - but it’s the providence that really makes it valuable. Maybe Garrett knows that, maybe he doesn’t. He still drops it into Basso’s outstretched hand without hesitation. It coils up neatly on Basso’s palm, the metal as as cold and smooth as snakeskin.

He blows out a shaky breath, tries too late to turn it into an appreciative whistle.

Garrett raises an eyebrow beneath the shadows of his hood. “Nervous, Basso?”

 _I’m holding a King’s ransom in the palm of my hand_ , Basso thinks, _of course I’m fucking nervous_. He doesn’t say that, though. However uninterested Garrett is in the value of this piece, the words _King’s ransom_ might be enough to pique his interest.

He doesn’t bother to be subtle about putting the necklace away; Garrett already knows where the safe is, after all, and most likely knows the combination too. Basso should probably be more worried about that than he is, but there isn’t much he can do about it short of having a new safe fitted, which is more time and effort than he’s willing to expend. Besides which, acting like he was cagey about having Garrett look through his safe would just encourage Garrett to do it. Thieves tended to see locks as challenges, rather than deterrents.

“Bet you’d be nervous too, if you were as overdue on your Tax as I am,” Basso grumbles.

“This may be a revolutionary idea, but have you ever considered paying your Tax on time for once?”

“Eh, why break the habit of a lifetime.”

The safe opens with a clunk, and Basso gently places the necklace inside, amongst various other items that are either waiting to be collected or waiting to be sold. He’ll have to send out a letter tonight, letting his client know that it had been successfully recovered and to start payment negotiations. Not that there would be much negotiation: the client wanted the necklace enough that they’d be willing to pay a handsome sum without question, and apparently trusted Basso not to take it that far. With a little bit of luck, the whole thing should be sewn up within a matter of days. Hopefully the Watch would be too busy dealing with the mansion theft to pay Basso a visit during that time.

“You did good, Garrett,” Basso says, as he closes the door on his prize. “Thanks.”

Basso doesn’t think much of it when Garrett doesn’t reply; though he seems to enjoy their verbal sparring, he gets the impression that Garrett isn’t much of a conversationalist.

It isn’t until he turns around and sees Garrett hanging on to his shelves that he thinks: _ah, shit_.

“Ah, shit,” he says. “Garrett? You okay?”

He approaches Garrett carefully, and he doesn’t hesitate to place a hand on Garrett’s arm. Ordinarily he would respect Garrett’s need for space, which Garrett takes great pains to establish in occasionally violent terms, but Basso has been around his fair share of drunks to know what it looks like when someone’s about to take a spill. He figures it’s best he sticks close, in case he needs to catch Garrett as he swoons.

Garrett’s hand is white-knuckled around the edge of the shelf - or it would be, if he wasn’t wearing his gloves - and he’s shaking, a delicate tremble in his arms and his knees. Basso ducks his head slightly as if to catch Garrett’s eye, but really he’s just checking-- yep. Garrett is as pale as sour milk under his hood, and the dark circles under his eyes are even more pronounced than usual.

Garrett jerks his head away too late, and Basso lets him hide beneath the shadows of his cowl. His attempt to shrug Basso’s hand off is less successful, so Basso keeps it where it is. Garrett’s skin is scaldingly hot, even through all those layers he wears, but Basso can’t say he’s made a habit of touching Garrett enough to know whether that’s always the case.

“I’m fine,” Garrett says. He sounds almost convincing. Pity he doesn’t look it.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Basso, not unkindly. “You want to try that one again? I couldn’t hear you over your knees knocking together.” He tries to subtly tug Garrett away from the table. “Come on, come and sit down for a second.”

Garrett glares at him, and this time when he pulls his arm away it’s with enough force that Basso lets him go. “I said I’m _fine_ ,” Garrett says, with a sharp edge of warning in his tone.

Ordinarily, Basso would concede the point: he has no desire to get into an argument with Garrett, especially knowing how volatile he could get when desperate. On the other hand, Garrett is still trembling like a newborn kitten, and there’s a bleariness in his eyes that speaks of lingering sickness and far, _far_ too much poppy.

Basso is beginning to get an idea of what had been keeping Garrett, and it isn’t pretty.

He should let Garrett go. It isn’t far to the clocktower, and Basso has no doubt that Garrett could make it there across the rooftops even in his current state. Hell, he could probably make it up there blind and four sheets to the wind, if he had to. It’d be the most sensible course of action: Garrett can go and lick his wounds in private, like he so obviously wants to, without Basso gawking at him. Basso can give him a week or so to recover, and then see about finding him another job, as a peace offering of sorts. Perhaps that would be better for both of them. Garrett is proud and private, and Basso is no nursemaid.

And yet…

 _You’re his fence_ , Basso tells himself firmly, _not his friend_. It sounds a little less convincing every time, even more so since Basso’s cell door had slid open and revealed Garrett behind the lever. Garrett had gone into the lion’s den for him. Weighed against that, the idea of him weathering this illness alone in a draughty clocktower sits uneasily on Basso’s conscience, or what little he has left by way of one.

“Sit down, Garrett,” he says, and he sounds as weary as he feels.

“I’m fine,” Garrett repeats, but it’s more of a mumble now.

Basso sighs and steps forward again, mindful of the way Garrett flinches away from him. He keeps his hands up, palms flat, like he’s approaching an angry alley cat. “Look, just humor me, alright? I got no doubt you could go and rob the General himself right now, but that don’t mean it’s a good idea. So would you sit down before you fall down?”

Garrett shakes his head. “I just need to… get back to the clocktower…” he says, so quietly that Basso has to crane his head in order to hear him. “I just… need to…”

He trails off. His knees shake one last time, violently, before they give out completely. Garrett slips to the floor with the shuddering, jerky panic of a man fighting a riptide that he knows he can’t win against, and Basso barely manages to get a hand on the shelf before Garrett brings the whole thing down on top of them. The various knick-knacks clatter unhappily as the shelf shudders and tilts, and Basso winces as one or two of them fall to the floor with a series of final-sounding crunches.

 _Why couldn’t he have done this over by the desk?_ Basso thinks, somewhat uncharitably.

The answer comes almost immediately: because the shelves are right next to the door. Garrett had been trying to escape.

Basso is willing to bet everything in his safe that Garrett had been about to disappear without a word when he felt the sickness start to lay its teeth into him. If he’d have been a few seconds quicker he would have made it out clean, and Basso would no doubt have spent the _next_ week scratching his head and wondering where Garrett was.

Something heavy tumbles past Basso’s head, taking his hat with it as it goes, and smashes on the carpet. “Christ, Garrett!” he yells. “Let go!”

He’s not sure whether it’s his words which encourages Garrett to let go of the shelves, or the combined pull of gravity and sickness. Judging by the way Garrett crumples to the floor, Basso strongly suspects it’s the latter. Without Garrett’s weight hanging off it, Basso is finally able to shove the shelving unit back against the wall where it belongs, albeit at the expense of his back and a few more valuable-sounding items.

“Fuckin’ hell, Garrett,” he snarls, because he’s sweaty and aching and his heart is still hammering in his chest. “You tryin’ to kill us, or just put me out of business?”

Garrett says nothing. He reaches up to curl his arms protectively around himself, but his shoulders and hands are shaking so much that he seems to be having difficulty actually getting a good grip. His cowled head is bowed so low it’s almost on his chest. Basso takes one look at him and sighs, the anger dropping out of him like a bag of rocks.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he repeats. “I’m too old for this shit.”

He nearly blows out his knees doing so, but Basso kneels down in front of Garrett, because he knows that just picking the thief up off the floor without warning is a good way to get his nose broken. Garrett may look pathetic right now, but Basso knows full well how much damage he could do when he’s half out of his mind with panic. He’s been on the receiving end of one of Garrett’s wild, uncoordinated strikes once, back before he knew better, and once was more than enough for him.

“Hey, Garrett,” he says, clearly but not loudly. Garrett looks up, his gaze wild. He looks like he’s having difficulty focusing for more than a few seconds at a time, and like that fact is scaring the shit out of him. Basso’s mouth twists sympathetically. “You okay?”

Garrett seems to consider this for a moment, or maybe he’s just having difficulty remembering the question. It’s hard to tell. His gaze is slightly clearer but still wary, and he watches Basso as if he expects the other man to do… something. Try and grab him, maybe. Basso tries not to take it personally. He doesn’t know what kind of shit Garrett has been through, although he can probably hazard a good guess.

Eventually, the thief shakes his head. “Not really,” he says.

Basso nods. “Thought so. How long you been sick for?”

“Since the job.”

“Gloom?”

Garrett shakes his head quickly. “No. It’s just a cold.”

 _Just_. Basso raises an eyebrow at Garrett’s hunched, shivering form. “Yeah,” he says, “I can see that.”

“It’ll pass. It _has_ passed. I’m just--” _weak_ , is what Garrett carefully doesn’t say.

Basso’s knees are starting to burn. He’s really not cut out for this shit. Unfortunately for him, he also understands that this is something that’ll have to be done carefully, with just the right amount of finesse. No good charging in like a burrick in a china shop.

Hang his knees; they’ll recover.

“Let me guess,” he says, conversationally. “You’ve spent the last week holed up somewhere, waiting for it to pass.” Garrett nods. “Probably haven’t felt up to stoking the fire much.” Another nod, this time slightly more grudging. “Definitely haven’t felt up to eating.” Garrett hesitates, but Basso already knows the answer. He sighs. “So let me see if I’ve got this straight:, you’ve been curled up in some drafty, damp piece-of-shit safehouse, with no fire and no food for a week, hoping to just… what, sleep it off? Or have you not been doing that either?” This time, Garrett doesn’t even need to nod. If he were anyone else, Basso would have clipped him upside the ear already. As it is, he settles for a rueful: “You’re a fucking idiot, Garrett.”

“It’ll pass,” Garrett insists, stubborn and a little hurt.

“Yeah, not like this it won’t. You’re lucky you didn’t make it worse.”

Garrett glares at him. “I can take care of myself, Basso,” he says, in a tone that suggests that he’s willing to remind Basso of this fact, ill or not.

Privately, Basso isn’t so sure. Garrett hasn’t been the same since Erin died and, whilst Basso wouldn’t go quite as far as suggest that Garrett had an actual death wish, he’s pretty sure that sitting alone up in that tower isn’t doing Garrett any good. Loneliness… it can change a man, and not always for the better. He makes a mental note to try and coax Garrett out a bit more, without making it obvious. He and Garrett are friendly enough that Garrett will break him out of prison, but he suspects that Garrett won’t take well to being looked after. Perhaps Basso could try sending him out on more jobs: the small stuff he’d usually give to less skilled thieves, as low-risk as he can get away with without offending Garrett’s sense of pride. Give him a reason to get out of the clocktower, and try to rekindle some of his spirit in the process. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be pretty having to steal the coin out of the hands of his more novice thieves in order to help Garrett out, but Basso will do it if it avoids another incident like this.

Garrett is valuable. More than that, he’s Basso’s friend. Sort of. It’s complicated.

Garrett looks utterly miserable, and Basso can’t help but rest a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Garrett had been trying to escape when his strength gave out. In all the years that Basso has known him, Garrett has _never_ missed his exit. That’s the thing about being a thief: you need to be able to run, far and _fast_ , sometimes without a lot of warning. Basso knows that this is part of the reason why Garrett doesn’t take drinks from strangers, why he’s always in motion, his back to the wall and his eyes on every available opening. He’s as meticulous about his body as he is with any of his tools; for it not to respond to him when he needs it to must be the stuff his nightmares are made of.

“Between you and me,” Basso says, “this is killing my knees. Think you can make it to the bed?”

To his credit, Garrett actually thinks about it, though Basso can’t tell whether his expression of panic is due to the word _bed_ or the sudden realization that he can’t make it there. “Uh…”

“Ah, well,” Basso says philosophically. “The General can’t cripple me if I get there first.”

He’s gratified when Garrett laughs; it’s small and breathy, but the amusement chases away some of the shadows from his eyes. “That’s what I like about you, Basso,” he says. “Always looking on the bright side.”

“Yeah, yeah. Arm around me, come on…”

Between the two of them, they somehow manage to half-stumble, half-drag Garrett across the room. In the far corner there’s a little nook that Basso optimistically uses as a sleeping area. He deposits Garrett on the lumpy mattress and straightens, knuckling the base of his spine with a groan. Garrett isn’t particularly heavy, but between that and the incident with the shelves Basso knows he’s going to be feeling this tomorrow.

Garrett flops on his back like a ragdoll and lays there, breathing hard. Basso feels like he was the one who did most of the work, but Garrett still looks the worst between the two of them: his skin is pallid and clammy, and his chest heaves as if he’s run a mile, instead of been hauled across a tiny basement room like a sack of spuds. There’s a definite rattle to his breathing that Basso doesn’t like.

As Basso watches, Garrett squirms a little, his expression going through a series of odd contortions. “This is where you _sleep_?” he asks, incredulously.

“Like I’d be that lucky,” says Basso. “I know, it’s a piece of shit. Been meaning to get a new one. But it was either that or the floor, so don’t complain.”

Garrett being Garrett, he complains almost immediately. “Pretty sure the floor is more comfortable.”

“You can crawl off any time you want,” Basso gives his lower back up as a lost cause and goes to douse some of the candles on the desk. Hopefully it’ll make Garrett feel slightly more secure if he has some shadows to hide in. “You hungry?”

“Depends what’s on offer…” Garrett sounds wary.

“Smart man.” Basso grins over his shoulder in a way that, judging by Garrett’s expression, is faintly threatening. “Get yourself comfortable, Garrett. _Relax_. Sooner you do, sooner you can go back to running across rooftops, or whatever it is you do when you’re not trying to drive me into an early grave.”

He’s almost out of the door when Garrett replies, and even then it’s so quiet that Basso nearly misses it beneath the sound of his own footfalls and the wheeze of his own breath.

“Reading.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Beg pardon?”

Garrett is still sprawled out across the bed like a five-pointed star, but his head is tipped back and his eyes are closed. He looks like he may actually be taking Basso’s advice to relax to heart, although Basso notes he hasn’t tried to remove any of his armor or weapons.

“I read,” says Garrett, in a soft, slightly slurred voice. “When I’m not here.”

Basso isn’t quite sure what to say to that. Judging from the dreamlike quality to Garrett’s speech, he’s probably not even aware he’d said it. Exactly how much poppy has he taken?

In the end, he says nothing. It seems like the safest option.

There are usually one or two urchins lurking in the nearby alley, hoping for either a hand-out from the owner of the Burrick or from Basso himself. Tonight is no exception. He calls over the lone straggler, a skinny, filthy little boy with a face like a rat, and offers him a coin or two in return for fetching some food. Ordinarily he’d go himself, but he’s loathe to leave Garrett when he’s in this state, especially with the possibility of the General’s men turning up on his doorstep. The urchin seems to suspect something interesting is going on, and tries to sneak a peek into Basso’s office, but he blocks the boy’s view with his body and then cuffs him gently around the ear.

 _See if Bill doesn’t have some bread going spare for you too_ , Basso says, though he already knows that the Burrick’s bartender will grudgingly toss the boy a few crusts. He’s almost as soft as Basso is.

The boy agrees and departs on filthy, noiseless feet.

That done, Basso spends a few minutes collecting the various trinkets that Garrett had pulled down from the shelves. Some of them have been chipped or broken by their sudden run-in with the floor, but a couple remain untouched. Basso sets the broken ones aside for now, in case he can fix them up later. Or pay someone else to do a decent job of it, which seems far more likely. He glances over at Garrett a few times, but the thief is still laid out on the bed with his eyes closed. Either he’s so out of it that he’s not aware of what Basso’s doing, or he’s feeling lousy enough not to care.

By the time Basso has finished clearing up, there’s a knock on the door. He opens it just long enough to take a bowl of fragrant but unappealing-looking stew and toss the delivery boy the promised coins, and then shuts it in his face.

The smell of the food and the sound of Basso approaching the bed seems to rouse Garrett slightly. His eyes flicker open with what appears to be great effort, and he frowns at Basso blurrily. “Hm?”

Basso holds the bowl up. “Got some food here, if you want it.”

Even knocked out by exhaustion and opium, Garrett still has the good sense to look suspicious. “What is it?”

Basso peers into the bowl. “Stew.”

“Meat?”

“Looks like it.”

Garrett narrows his eyes slightly. “What animal?”

Basso checks the bowl again. “Haven’t a fucking clue. You want it, or not?”

The look on Garrett’s face clearly says _not_ , but he hauls himself into a sitting position and holds his hand out for the bowl anyway, which means that he must be hungrier than Basso thought. He lingers just long enough to make sure that Garrett can hold the bowl and work the spoon before turning back to his desk, where an endless pile of work awaits.

Basso isn’t used to having people occupy his space like this, but to his surprise he finds that it’s not necessarily unpleasant. Garrett eats quietly, with just the occasional scrape of his spoon to indicate that he’s still there. Basso writes out a letter, which is more difficult than it looks with half his candles doused, and puts it aside to send out with his bird, whenever the daft thing decides to come back. They don’t bother with small-talk, although Basso suspects Garrett wouldn’t be up to it even if he were the chatty sort.

By the time he’s turned back, Garrett has finished his meal and is cradling the spotlessly empty bowl between his long, pale fingers. Basso half-expected to have an audience whilst he worked, but Garrett’s head is bowed. It’s enough to worry him for a moment, before Garrett’s head dips slightly and then jerks up, and Basso realizes that he’s fighting to stay awake.

“Here,” he reaches out to take the bowl from between Garrett’s hands, before he drops the thing on Basso’s already irretrievable mattress. He deposits the bowl on the desk without looking. “If I’d have known you’d like it that much, I’d have asked for a second bowl.”

“It was very… interesting.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up.” Bill’s stew is horrifying but fairly common fare in the City, and not for the first time Basso wonders what kind of food Garrett is used to eating, if he finds it so odd.

By the time he finishes wondering this, Garrett is already back on his feet, tugging his mask up to conceal the lower half of his face. It makes him look different; dangerous, deadly. Even Basso, who trusts Garrett enough to let the other man make use of his bed, is grudgingly intimidated.

“Thanks, Basso,” Garrett says, though he does it like a child being forced to thank someone for an unwanted birthday gift. Not quite as sullenly, but certainly as awkward. “For the food… and the bed…”

“... and the help getting up off the floor, yeah, yeah, I get it.” Basso waves Garrett off with one hand, mostly because he doesn’t want to see the thief abase himself trying to express gratitude.

He watches Garrett move towards the open window, noting that the thief is perhaps a little more cautious in his movements than usual, but not stiff or unsteady. That’s good. Basso would hate to waste a handful of coins getting a good meal in Garrett, only for the thief to die falling from a rooftop, or something equally as ignoble. Part of him wonders if he should try and compel Garrett to stay until he’s a bit more steady, but he already knows it’ll be useless. He’s lucky Garrett dropped his guard as long as he had. It’s the most vulnerable that Basso will ever see him, he should think.

It isn’t until Garrett is almost at the window that Basso speaks again, and he isn’t consciously aware that he’s doing it until the words come out of his mouth. “Garrett?”

Garrett stops and half-turns. His shoulders tense.

“I know it’s difficult, being a master thief and all,” Basso says. “But next time you find your larder empty, just come and find me. Bill’s food ain’t great, but it’s food. Sort of.”

Garrett seems to consider this for a moment. “Is it always the stew?”

“Not always. Sometimes it’s soup.”

“... I’ll think about it.”

Basso smirks, but he lets it go without comment. He knows the thief recognizes the offer as an attempt at keeping an eye on him, as much as a gesture of friendship, but he can’t force Garrett to eat with him if he doesn’t want to. _Finesse_ , he tells himself. _You can do finesse_. Basso is more used to wooing prospective allies and volatile gang leaders than reclusive master thieves, but the basics are essentially the same.

“Oh, and Garrett?”

Garrett, who is already hoisting himself out of the open window, pauses.

“Try using the fucking door next time.”

That earns him a low, silky chuckle, right before Garrett disappears through the window like a curl of smoke. Basso shakes his head at the empty space where Garrett had just been, even as the soft sound of footsteps disappears into the night.

One day, he tells himself. One day, he’ll get Garrett to use the door.

Of course he _could_ just bolt the window, but where’s the fun in that?

Still smirking, Basso reaches for the matches and begins lighting the candles lining his desk once more. He’ll have to re-write the damn letter, as he suspected; in the harsh light of day, it looks like it’s been written by a squid in a bucket.

Sighing, Basso sits down, picks up his pen, and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper.

It’s long past morning by the time Basso finishes. He falls asleep somewhere between his second draft and his breakfast, and wakes up mid-day to a gnawing pain in his joints and a calfskin purse sitting on the desk, which _definitely_ hadn’t been there when he nodded off. A brief inspection reveals enough coin to pay off a hefty chunk of his Tax. There’s no note to suggest who left it, but Basso knows. Who else could it be? For one, Basso couldn’t think of anyone who would part with that amount of coin without expecting something in return.

He’s not sure whether the idea of Garrett sneaking around his room whilst he’s sleeping is endearing or terrifying. He checks his safe, just in case, but everything is where he left it the night before. If Garrett looked through it - and who is Basso kidding, of _course_ he looked through it - then he managed to resist the urge to lift anything whilst he was at it.

Basso is still learning to read Garrett, but he’s pretty sure that counts as a ‘thank you’.

 


End file.
